


Carnis Resurrectionem

by DeathCorporal



Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Anal Sex, Aroused (Sort of) Victim, Dark Magic, Extra Treat, Loss of Control, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Religious Guilt, Sexual Repression, Undead Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathCorporal/pseuds/DeathCorporal
Summary: Grissom awakens in the Snowfly Forest to find himself at odds with his body. Sydney seems more than willing to show him its limitations.
Relationships: Grissom/Sydney Losstarot
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Carnis Resurrectionem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VenatorNoctis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/gifts).



_“This body is yours no longer, poor shade. You would suffer a lesser pain in abandoning it.”_

Lies. Grissom would not heed them--he had not heeded Sydney’s admonitions against magic, and he would not suffer some damnable cultist lecturing him on the properties of his own flesh. He knew himself. He remained one of God’s reasoning creatures. He did not walk among the cold ones yet.

“You will find this wreckage cumbersome as other wanderers hasten after it, Grissom,” Sydney continued.

He stepped forward then, laying a taloned gauntlet on Grissom’s shoulder as he leaned close. The man’s breath burned against Grissom’s face and throat like an open flame.

“I will not be led astray by you,” Grissom said. “I am not some simpleton out of the Graylands you can charm with a dance and a smile.”

He moved to brush Sydney’s hand from his body and failed. For a time, he could not move--stuck longer than he would like in the gap between his mind’s intent and his body’s action. When he finally touched the metal arm that gripped him, he found it was as still and unmoving as monumental stone.

Sydney, obviously amused, grasped him and pulled him closer, bringing his other hand around to the back of Grissom’s neck.

“You will find it more and more difficult with time, father. You should leave to join the throng.”

“I will not be commanded by _you._ ”

“Perhaps not...” Sydney smirked. “Perhaps, however, you shall let me show you where your command of yourself is wanting?”

He pulled him suddenly into a kiss then, and Grissom felt a strange and terrible thrill run through him as he realized, once more, that he could not move as he ought. Sydney’s mouth burned against his as if it were imbued with all the hellfire to which his heresy condemned him. When Grissom finally forced himself once more to motion, it was with a clumsy flailing that did little to disentangle him from the man’s embrace.

“Tell me, father,” Sydney continued once their lips parted, “are you always so yielding to a man’s advances? I imagine your brotherhood must have found you an amiable companion.” 

The blow was sudden, reflexive--it happened before Grissom thought to strike him. There was a sudden lurch of something that fired through Grissom’s veins, and then he was watching as the metal arm that held him fell away. It hit the damp grass of the clearing with a clattering thud.

Sydney seemed wholly unfazed. Grissom felt a word stick in his throat as a hand that was not there suddenly caressed the side of his face, leaving a numbness there like the chill of an Ice Wyrm’s fire. A snowfly from the swarm clouding around them landed on his cheek then, tickling the wet skin. 

He realized that he had been weeping. 

“Do you still want to deny the Dark’s claim on you?”

Grissom forced his lips and palate into the motions of speech. It was halting, almost painful.

“God’s... claim is greater.”

His words were slurred. His eyes stung. The chill upon his face altered then--spreading to the edge of his open mouth where it suddenly lay heavy on his tongue. It stung at the points where his teeth met the gums. Sydney smiled, the bladed fingers of his remaining hand tangling a little in Grissom’s hair.

“Be a good martyr then, Grissom; let the Dark put that to the test.” 

The snowfly sped off as Sydney’s mouth was on his skin again, trailing hot kisses along the edges of his jaw. The phantom shape of something like an arm clamped around his waist, and he tried to move--to struggle--as they fell to the damp grass below. His limbs did not comply. He was out of step with himself, hovering always a few seconds behind and a few inches away from his body.

He felt a gagging that should have been a gasp as the chill in his mouth snaked towards the back of his throat. His body trembled without his accord as that same cold nothingness flickered over the rest of him, writhing between the cracks in his armor and under the fabric of his gambeson. All the while, Sydney caressed him, lips burning against his flesh as his metal fingers played with the clasps and laces of his clothing. Grissom let forth a moan as the chill of whatever power it was that held him reached his groin, sinking into his parts and pricking them with its cold flame.

“Consider it a test of faith, father: a temptation or an ordeal.” He pulled away his plate by pieces. “I’m sure many an ancient Iocan suffered worse in their crusades.”

Grissom writhed as he was stripped, but it was not in keeping with the actions of the man atop him. The span between when he was touched and when he flinched was indeterminate. He felt himself stiffen even without the sensations of arousal, and his head swam as he realized that the flushed heat on his face and limbs did not come from within his body. 

The Dark--for he knew now it was the Dark--traced patterns across his bare skin where it fluttered across it. He understood without seeing them that they were the same blasphemous sigils cut into every court and cobblestone of the damned city that overlooked the forest: he understood that they were the same he’d used in the folly of the summoning.

When he cried out, it was an animal sound. Sydney did not heed it.

The Dark coiled over his skin: slick, numbing ropes of a great nothing that tugged at his limbs and spidered over his features. He felt it probe hard against the inside of his throat and pool over his naked thighs and belly. All the while, Sydney continued to toy with him, his mouth like a furnace as he bit the skin over his collar bone, as he lapped at the contours of his slender frame, as his tongue probed the long wound that cut across his ribs.

When he felt his wrist held firm against the cold soil, Grissom realized that the taloned fingers of the hand that pinned him there had cut long gashes into the skin--wounds he felt without the accompanying sting of pain.

He looked up toward the overcast sky to see Sydney’s face floating above him, flaxen hair like a halo against the unending grey above. He imagined, as his vision blurred, that he must be weeping still. He tried then to turn his thoughts to rites and liturgy--to all the manifold sacraments that the Saint placed between man and damnation. He felt himself arch upward, writhing over the magic that held him as his memories failed. When his lips at last moved in the motions of prayer, the words had fled from him, falling away like so much smoke or water.

“Show me, father--show me what your flesh wanted while you still lived?”

His flesh was cold, his mind drifting. That he felt his cock--hard and rigid against Sydney’s close-pressed body--seemed an almost abstracted terror. The Dark seemed to pull at some hidden cord on which his body now hung. He felt his legs part; he felt his mouth go slack. All the while Sydney watched him--as cruelly beautiful as every Kildean idol the righteous had once set to the flame.

Grissom moaned freely now, breathless and sick. He tried--and failed--to close his eyes as he felt the numb tension of what must be Sydney’s own cock pressed against the flesh of his bared buttocks. For all that his prayers had abandoned him, he suddenly recalled with burning clarity every shameful carnal thought he had failed to cast before a confessor.

The Dark pressed close to him then, and he felt it sink into his poor flesh where it could. It stung as it flooded his eyes, his nostrils, the open wounds freshly made. He groaned hard as he felt it press its soft way inside him, caressing him as if to evoke the ghost of what was once pleasure. When he felt Sydney follow after, he cried out.

“Oh God--God!”

“Some call me that,” Sydney said softly, exhaling visibly as he snapped his hips forward. “Did you want so much of your last God?”

Grissom could not reply. Grissom could barely think. His flesh seemed to move now in accord with a logic wholly separate from his will, and he could not even shudder as he bucked up to meet Sydney’s thrusts. He was caught in the agony of a sin that bore him no pleasure save the memory of all his unconsummated lusts. As Sydney withdrew himself and thrust the whole of his length back in all at once, he moaned hard, reacting as though the burning member within him had touched upon a body that still felt.

He told himself desperately that this was a trick of the Dark. He told himself that he was a living man and he had been forced into this through dark magic and deceit--that this was a test, that this was an illusion. He felt his free hand fumble to clutch at the figure above him, reaching towards Sydney as he drove hard into him.

“Was this what you hoped would be revealed to you, father?” Sydney whispered. “Did you have hopes that Iocus would someday grant you such a benediction--that God would show you Truth in your own sorry flesh?”

Had he? Grissom could not know now. His body seemed to hunger in ways beyond lust--to long for something darker that the dim sensations of the hard flesh pistoning into his own. The Dark welled within him as without, and he felt its numb push through the circuits of his veins with each thrust Sydney made into him. If it had just been a man fucking him, if it had been some brutality of the impure visited upon the righteous, he could have persisted. This was different, it was as if every fiber of him was polluted beyond the hope of redemption, as though his body would break apart and dissolve into the Dark in which it was suffused.

“Please....” he slurred out the word without knowing what it was for which he pled. Sydney smiled as he pushed into him harder, as Grissom finally brought his unpinned hand to rest on the ridge of his hip.

“You need not plead, Grissom,” he whispered. “I will give you all the revelations you desire.”

He leaned forward then and kissed him once more; a hard metal hand clutched at his face. Grissom knew he wept freely now as he kissed him back--as he cried out in an anguish that seemed beyond the limits death should set on mortal suffering.

He felt himself climax, his body convulsing in a numb shuddering lurch. It did nothing to dispel the lust in which he lay entangled. His body continued in rhythm with Sydney’s, riven through with the cold of the Dark and the feverish warmth of so much animal heat. Grissom tried to think of God, to search out some light beyond this sacrilegious distortion of human passions. All he found was Sydney, gloating and warm atop him as a single pulse roared through both of their bodies.

Grissom lay there as he was fucked, as he sank and swam in the midst of the massing Dark, as the snowflies came back to rest on them--lapping at the sweat of the one or the blood of the other. He felt the dead weight of his unmoving heart lying still within his breast, his lungs taking in no air as he mouthed out a litany of wordless blasphemies.

When Sydney finally came, Grissom lay there yet, shuddering against the body that filled him as he realized with burning shame that he hungered still: that the act--now at an end--would never reach any consummation greater than it already had. Sydney lay there a moment, his cock pulsing and hot within Grissom’s dead flesh.

“Who claims you now, father?” he whispered viciously. “How went your trial?”

Grissom pushed him away in a sudden terror, scattering snowflies as he howled disconsolately. He had once more found a way to command something of his poor frame. Sydney laughed as he withdrew himself and stood over where Grissom lay trembling and naked in the grass, slick with dew, blood, and spend. Grissom shook as he brought himself to kneeling, casting aside the hollow metal arm that had once clutched his face.

In the absence of Sydney’s body, he began to understand the terrible coldness filling his own.

“God…”

Sydney laughed as Grissom numbly clawed at his own flesh, grasping at it as though he would wrench away the corruption within.

“You should fly after him, father.” He gestured to the whirling flurry of white wings and mist around them. “He is as near as he ever was.”

**Author's Note:**

> See my [profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathCorporal/profile) for notes on remixes, podfic, derivative works, and constructive criticism.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks to Gammarad for betaing.


End file.
